


trust me to take you home

by Anonymous



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:12:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you love her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trust me to take you home

**Author's Note:**

> Angst? Probably.

You sit outside, twisting your fingers in your lap, unable to meet anyone's eyes for fear that they can see what's in them. Your hunch has returned; you find that you cannot be bothered to keep yourself upright. It's your body's natural reaction, to fold into yourself, retreat at the slightest hint of danger, or a threat. Your fingers, for lack of better things to do, peels at the rim of a Styrofoam cup — your fifth.

The others have yet to arrive. Your feet tap restlessly against linoleum, your face, decidedly stoic.

You should not be surprised, really, everyone leaves or is leaving.

Your mind mimics her body: fuelled by adrenaline and caffeine and worry, disoriented yet perfectly aware, in a state of in-between that immensely agitates you.

Her parents emerge. They look worse for wear; her father's hands are shaking, but his eyes are steel, and yet they gleam with wetness. Her mother is in a similar state of disarray, but she is calm and composed, only the trembling of her lip gives it away.

Of course, you completely understand, but is unable to relate.

You look down and avoid eye-contact. Your hair is so wild and wind-blown from the ride here, and your face grimy and in several states of denial. You think they would be so indulgent in their pain that they would simply trudge past you.

Apparently not.

Her mother regards you with a flinty look. Her father simply moves on, unbothered. He is too much in pain. You return the look without truly meaning to; it's in your smudged mascara and eyeliner that are too dark, too grunge.

"Oh, it's you," she says. Her voice is friendly, yet distant. Cordial, civil.

You don't ask how she is, and she doesn't tell you.

She only says, after some mutual understanding has passed between the both of you: "She wants to see you."

You nod, and she shares one last sympathetic glance before joining the lost father who is already far down the corridor.

It's intensely dramatic, some detached part of your mind can't help but think. Yet no one is sobbing, or collapsing against the wall, or in need of a sedative. Ironic.

Finally, they arrive, in their usual clamour, crowding the corridor that you feel so stifled, even if it's with the people you love and accept.

"Have you gone in yet?" they ask, in hushed tones that are so unlike them you'd laugh. And you actually do, but it comes out a scoff, and their eyes grow soft, pitying. You want to snap at them, but there is no good reason to, and when you rationalise everything, you realise you're in shock, that you should probably eat something that's not coffee or packet chips, and you're taking out your frustrations on others.

It's clear in your jumping pulse, your dilated pupils.

Instead you shake your head, and gesture towards the door. They take the hint, and (for once, without being herded) enter the ward.

You come in last, and shut the door softly behind you. Even that sounds final.

Your hands are _not_ shaking. Neither are your shoulders beginning to tremble. You have control, and that is what the others lack as they immediately begin to tear.

Embarrassing. You frown on such exhibitory shows of emotion. They undermine you, make you appear weak and vulnerable. There is no dignity in it. And _no one_ can tell you otherwise. It doesn't fucking matter who.

Her eyes are dreary, but they are still bright and pretty. You turn away and concern yourself with the fruits basket sent by some distant relative who probably doesn't give two shits about her till now. Her eyes aren't pretty, you think. Sure, they are as blue, as vivid, as acute, even as they are soft with sleep. But they are _not_ pretty.

They talk, and talk, and _talk_. Then she calls for a "group hug" and everyone else obliges, which makes no fucking sense to you; she's on a elevated bed that could collapse under the weight of all the girls. And so you insist on parting your wisdom from the corner of the room, your back to the door. She looks over someone's shoulder and through blonde hair, straight at you.

You meet her eyes at first, for a brief moment, your eyes not quite a glare, and then you look elsewhere.  

There are some murmurs from the group (cult, really) as they exit (some reluctantly), supplying kisses and some more hugs and pats on shoulders. They pass by you, as you make way for them, but you ignore them, occupied with holding the door open for the lot.

She calls your name when the door is shut once more, and it's just the two of you, and you think that the both of you have never been as silent in the same room, not even when the both of you first met.

Your name is so demure, so gentle on her tongue that you struggle to think that she's calling for you. Is that even your name at all? She might have asked for a wastebasket to puke in or something, and you would have thought that your name.

 Her eyes take you in as you are, fully, from the chaos of your hair to your stubborn, unyielding eyes.

She says your name again, just above a whisper, this time. You refuse to move. She — her presence — erodes your control and resolve entirely. You cannot afford that kind of loss of control. That is all you have now.

She calls for you. Again.

You shake your head _no_.

She frowns, almost in amusement, like a puzzled mother would to a child.

She says your name, again, and again. You only shake your head, _no i don't want to. please stop calling my fucking name._

The quiet is so stilling that you may think this to be the only fixed point in your life.

Her eyes are patient, and so _incredibly_ kind that you do not think you deserve all that. You are prickly, thorny and angry, and she makes you better, you _know_ that.

Finally, she whispers, "Come here."

And you break. Your body shakes and quakes, and you're _crying_. Good God. She'd never let you live that down. You know she won't. She'd prod you in the middle of the night and laugh at you and remind you and kiss it all better. You forgive her every goddamn time, though, and you find that you think it's becoming less irritating than it is endearing.

You know she'd get up and hug you so fiercely if she can, but she can't. That difference hits you hard. And you suddenly must leave.

But she calls your name again, and it feels like a rushing tide, consuming, amorously warm and all kinds of affectionate, and she's tilting her head. " _Please_ don't go."

You falter. She beckons you closer, "Come here. _Please_."

You oblige, as you are a sailor pulled by all of force and time to her siren song.

She, carefully, as if it were you that was dying, touches your arm. When you let her, she looks up to smile at you.

You're out of words. You have never been prepared for this; think: oh it'll come to pass when we're older.

You watch her lips move. She says, "Your hair's sticking up in all weird places. Did you take the bike here?" And her hand goes to smoothen and right your hair.

You nod.

She narrows her eyes disapprovingly. "You didn't use the helmet, did you."

You shake your head.

"That's dangerous. I've told you a million times to take your helmet with you," she admonishes.

You blink. Tumbling out of your mouth suddenly, breathlessly, waveringly, you gasp, " _What are you saying_?"

She looks at you meaningfully, a sad (though she's trying not to be; she always is the optimist) smile quirking a corner of her lips. "I'm saying you should take better care of yourself. You neglect yourself so often I get worried."

"So worry! I don't care. It doesn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you," you snap.

She flinches, and you almost, _almost_ feel guilty.

She removes her hand, and you think, _thank fucking goodness_ , and you know that it's wholly psychological but you think her handprint remains as if she had hit you instead, and it sears. She might as well have hit you.

"You're angry," she finally says. "You're hurt. And I'm sorry, really. I'm so sorry. I wish it were different too." Her eyes are watery, and you think she must have slapped you because your ears are ringing as if they had just been, and your cheek burns.

She makes you feel so _selfish_ you hate her for it. But you stare at her, your gaze uncertain, at her hairline, at the fire of her hair, at the ocean of her eyes, at the ardent and affectionate point in them, at the slope of her shoulders, the small fraction of flesh the gown proffers of her collarbones. You remember the taste of her, so potent on your tongue. You remember the weight of her, warm and laughing, sun-kissed in the local swimming pool. You remember, so distinctly from the collage of your memories (you will _never_ let yourself go senile and forget), her voice, lilting and strong, in her old second-hand Camaro that you always mock. You remember her laugh, and it runs warmly through you like good whiskey. It chases away this bitter taste of betrayal at the back of your tongue.

The memories mess your mind up, and thwarts any form of control whatsoever, that you, drunk in yearning and melancholy, touch her fingers, and lace your fingers with hers, as an unspoken apology, as a compensation.

"I'm an asshole," you begin and she laughs wetly.

She teases, "Yes you are."

You frown at her, "And a dick. The worst. I'm the worst. I forgot birthdays and anniversaries and dates, and I'm a horrible, horrible person, especially for you. I think I gave you ulcers from the stress."

She laughs again, and hums, "It's kind of like living with an angsty teenager."

"Okay, it can't be _that_ bad."

She gives you an open look and you concede, "Fine, it is bad. And sometimes I never really grew past that stage. I'm selfish, and I have trust issues."

 She looks at you fondly, and suddenly, without much force or effort (you offer no resistance this time), she pulls you closer, hips against the bed, lays her head against your chest.

You cry then, all of it bursting and ripping at your seams, and she tells you it's okay to cry, murmuring, "You don't have to be strong for everyone. It's not embarrassing. It's okay."

Your fingers curl into her hair, and you desperately hold on. You are probably hurting her, but she makes not even the slightest whimper. You've never held her as solidly against you as this, you realise. She feels very real, very honest, very earnest; it would be cruel, you think, if reality lied to you like this. She is limp against you, nuzzling, allowing you to be as you are.

You find yourself sharing the little bed later, curling into yourself and taking up the least amount of space. This is _her_ bed, not yours. She is half-asleep, her hand resting on your cheek, her nose touching yours. You can smell her, this bodily scent that reminds you of flowers and sun-warmth.

You nudge her nose with yours, paranoid and frightened, and she tolerates you with a smile, nudging back with a murmur, "You're like a little puppy."

"Whatever," you breathe. But your arm tightens around her waist.

"I love puppies," she says languidly.

"You love everything," you point out.

She laughs, agreeing; her soft breaths resemble short pants in your ears, "I love you most of all."

"Corny," you whisper, fearing your voice would break, and you shift closer, wishing to be held, "you're so corny."

You recite some Greek poems to her, the ones you can still remember from your Greek elective previously (that feels so distant now; how is time moving so fast?), and you tell her about Achilles and his everlasting love (which not many tend to recall over his fiery conquests and temper, alike), Cassandra and Apollo, and Antigone, Heracles. You sing to her everything, songs from eras past and songs on the radio now, whatever, anything. Her breathing is enough for you.

"See?" she whispers, "You're just as sappy as I am."

"I'm only doing this cause I love you," you say. "Be glad."

She smiles, though you cannot see it nor feel it, you know it. You stare at the column of her neck instead, her chin on your head, watching, counting and measuring her breathing.

"You love me."

"Don't make a big deal out of it, okay."

"You emotionally stunted bitch," she laughs.

You watch her, as if you were a dog with a pant leg, and feel acrid tears at your eyes. You blink them away. You beg, all pride fallen, "Please don't leave."

"Please don't leave," she returns, gripping your hand.

"I won't," you promise.

She smiles again, "Then I won't."

You know it's not much of a promise. It doesn't matter. They'll have to pry you away, and you will ride your motorcycle home (is it even a home, anymore? It feels so foreign to you now), revving the engine the loudest it can go, going fast over slick roads, beating and breaking speed limits, without your helmet so your hair would go into your eyes and mouth and you can pretend it's hers as she rolls over in sleep.

Go, you will. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Angst? Definitely.
> 
> title from Putting the Dog to Sleep by The Antlers.


End file.
